One of our Own
by TheProfoundSilence
Summary: They protect their own. It just took them a while to realize that Sherlock Holmes was one of theirs. Post-Reichenbach Fall


ONE OF OUR OWN

Summary: They protect their own. It just took them a while to realize that Sherlock Holmes was one of theirs. Post-Reichenbach Fall.

The Reichenbach Fall, as John's blog had taken to calling it was one of the cruellest miracle Sherlock had ever pulled and that was really saying something.

Sherlock was not the ray of sunshine that brought happiness and joy to those around him; more the avenging angel you were glad existed but would much rather never personally meet.

Which was why Greg Lestrade had never really forseen any more complications when Sherlock magically came back from the dead. In fact, he had predicted that things would go back to normal, if anything.

The brash genius's apparent suicide had sent all who had ever even had the displeasure to talk to him even once into a sort of frenzy, the likes of which he had never seen. But, that was Sherlock for you. Arrogant and rude, yet had a way of getting under your skin. Or maybe it was just the cruel way he had died.

Regardless, he had expected all the moping about, the sombre mood would end. In fact, he had fully expected all of them to call him a bastard and go back to their callous, barely professional relationship with him.

It didn't happen that way.

The first time Sherlock sauntered into a crime scene was admittedly exactly what Lestrade had expected.

Stunned looks from passer-byes (Never mind the fact that Sherlock Holmes' dramatic resurrection was the talk of the Yard) that John and Lestrade shut down from afar with eased practise; having to defend the mad genius from the rest of the world was instinctive and deeply ingrained in both men's persona by now.

No-one dared to approach or comment on Sherlock's presence the entirety of the investigation, but they all stayed within earshot.

Sherlock crouched down to the corpse, stared at the body for a brief second, glanced at the hands, turned the body over again.

Finally he said, "Arrest the brother." Which was quick and astounding even by his standards and would've left them all amazed and slightly disgruntled, if not for the fact that the goddamn brother was standing not two feet from Sherlock.

He could see the alarm and panic in the brother's face, and watched as if in slow-motion when he made an alarming dash towards Sherlock.

Time slowed down, and Lestrade's first thought was not a spiel of panicked commentary, rather the question of why would the idiot choose to run towards rather than away from the crime scene?

Then he realized that there was no-where he could possibly run what with the place swarming with coppers. The thought that succeeded that one was a running commentary of explicit language, finally "Oh shit. Sherlock!"

But before things could progress, there was a gunshot and Sherlock rolled down.

And all the detective inspector could see was Sherlock down on the ground and a numb panic slowly overtaking his senses, _No! No! Not again; never again_.

He slid down to the ground next to him, hands hovering uselessly in the air.

Sherlock shifted, tried to move up.

"No, for god's sake. Hold still!"

"I'm okay," Sherlock replied coherently.

Shock, the detective added to his list of symptoms and held the detective still to avoid adding complications before a doctor gets here.

Except, except there was no blood and Sherlock was starting to struggle, whispering, "I'm okay, I'm okay."

Greg lightly turned him over, and there was no blood in the front either. The sleuth's eyes were sharp and coherent, unglazed and he was most definitely not in shock.

Apparently one of the others had taken a shot at their armed suspect before the suspect had a chance to take a shot at Sherlock; and the sound of a gun being fired had prompted the detective to duck.

It was only later, after the suspect had been taken to the hospital (still alive; the bullet had hit a non-fatal part of his chest) that he realized the impressive response time of his team.

It wasn't that they weren't good or anything like that; more like they never really made as much of an effort with Sherlock.

Sherlock was never worth the full effort that the cops put into civilians; he was something less than human, or so everyone had treated him. With contempt and disgust; hatred enhanced by their bruised ego every time they crossed paths with the genius sleuth.

If anything, he had expected that they'd let the suspect shoot and then arrest the man. If it hit Sherlock, they'd be secretly gleeful, and silently disappointed if it did not. It's not like the court could rule against them for not being quick enough.

Indeed, Sherlock not just had the reputation for most cases solved, he was also high up the list of the person-who-ended-up-hurt-the-most-in-the-whole-goddamn-world.

From random suspects and chasing after leads when the random DI's in charge (despite Lestrade putting in a good word) refused to follow his leads to deliberate malicious injuries, Sherlock's body suffered major abuse. (Add that to his abysmal feeding and sleeping patterns, and he'd have been arrested for domestic abuse if it weren't his own self that was going down.)

Sherlock's presence was always met with taunts and cruel words. He could well understand the urge. His arrogance could make even the humblest of saints snap. Except they took it a step too far, and Lestrade didn't intervene as much as he probably should.

In fact, this was one of the very few times when someone other him or Dr. Watson had protected him from bodily harm, which was why he could not resist asking the shooter about it, who just gave him a mystified look, as if he could not fathom such a query, "We protect our own, don't we?"

And that was that.


End file.
